A Life Imagined
by foodaddict
Summary: When Princess Myrcella Baratheon met Robb Stark, she knew at once what would become of them.


**A Life Imagined**

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Robb Stark, Myrcella Baratheon, or any of the other characters created by George R. R. Martin. Neither do I have any claim over his work in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ or any of the work done for the HBO television show adapting his books. I do not earn any profit from this.

 **Author's Note:** Hi guys! Okay, now and then I'll do something naughty like forget a friend's birthday or a friend will do something really nice like throw me a surprise birthday party. When that happens, one of the things they can ask me for is a fic written just for them. So this is for you, K.T.M. Thank you for all your help!

This is the favorite pairing of a friend of mine, who quite despaired over the eventual fates of Robb and Myrcella in the television show. This follows canon more than my other _Game of Thrones_ fics, and it's also much more innocent than what I usually write (hahahahaha), so I hope you like it!

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"Oh, hurry up, please, please hurry," Myrcella begged her maid, eager to be gone. The sun had set over an hour before and she knew that the feast would begin soon. Her mother had cautioned her sternly to be on time for the procession, and Myrcella _hated_ disobeying her mother.

There was more to it than simple filial piety, of course, if Myrcella was honest with herself—and Myrcella was scrupulously honest. If she had wanted to be certainly punctual, she would have gone down after her bath. But somehow that night demanded more, and so at her command her hair had been washed and fragrant oils had been slathered over her, and she had agonized over her attire with a particularity that her blessedly discreet maid, Jynessa, had found charmingly out of character. It was clear that the princess meant to make a show of herself tonight—which took very little effort most of the time. Myrcella had her mother's Lannister beauty in abundance—a glorious tumble of golden curls, verdant green eyes, and a beautifully-shaped, bow-like mouth. Even at eight, with her wispy figure and uncertain air, Princess Myrcella very easily entranced.

Tucking the last curl carefully with a pin, Jynessa surveyed her work critically. Myrcella had settled on a dress that was called yellow but was golden in the firelight, the ochre tones of the velvet charmed out by the dancing flames. Jynessa had selected the jeweled net herself, the fine filigree gold twined around clusters of emeralds and diamonds. Nodding in satisfaction, she gave her mistress an encouraging grin. "You'll be setting Northern hearts on fire, Princess," she remarked proudly.

Color flooded Myrcella's smooth cheeks and she sent a fervent prayer to the Seven that Jynessa would prove right. After all, she didn't need many hearts afire over her—just one.

It already felt like an eternity since she had seen Robb Stark, though they had clasped hands only that morning. Lord Eddard Stark had other sons, of course, and one nearer to Myrcella's own age, but she quite forgot all about them whenever she thought of Robb. He was fourteen, but something about him made him seem heaps older. He didn't look like he was going to be very tall—Myrcella's older brother, Joffrey, was only twelve and already very near Robb in height—but Robb seemed to her already very much a man. He was sturdily built, with shoulders so broad Myrcella imagined no weight was a match for him. His hair was too long, Myrcella's mother had remarked privately, but Myrcella had delighted in the sight of his ruddy curls, which gleamed with fire and invited the touch. His jaw was already tough, and roughening with stubble, as she would discover when he condescended to permit her to touch his face.

Myrcella wanted to fly down from her chambers, but she encountered her family as soon as she stepped out of her room and knew that she must walk as sedately as a septa, whatever she felt like. Her mother smiled at her in proud approval and her father teased a stray lock from her net, bellowing with laughter because he somehow knew that it would aggravate her, though she did not protest.

"Don't grow up too soon," he said in more subdued tones, looking at her wistfully once his laughter had died away into soft chortles. "Stay a little girl a while longer, my princess."

Myrcella smiled but did not answer. She didn't want to lie, but nor did she have the heart to tell her kind, funny father that she was _bursting_ to grow up, to become as beautiful as her mother. To have children of her own, a husband of her own.

She had never really given it much thought before. Once when she was six or seven, her septa had remarked that Myrcella would make a fine wife for whichever lord her father would choose for her. Her mother had spoken then, in steady, even tones that still managed to make the entire room go quiet, and said very clearly that Myrcella would never have to marry anyone she didn't want to marry, whatever else her father had to say about it. Myrcella had laughed then, because she couldn't imagine wanting to marry anyone. She had plenty of men around her—her father, Joffrey, Tommen, Uncle Jaime. What use might she have for one more?

But none of them were Robb Stark. When her eyes had first fallen on Robb Stark, it was as though a veil had been torn from her sight. _This_ was what they all meant about wanting someone, wanting to belong to someone and have that person belong to you. Myrcella had wanted to throw herself at his feet, but if she had learned anything in the short span of life she possessed, it was that princesses never made spectacles of themselves. Every other minute since she had met him she had to remind herself of that, when the tangle of feelings inside her seemed almost impossible to contain. Even now, when she was certain she was excited to see him again, a part of her was overcome with unaccountable shyness and terror. What if she did something stupid and embarrassed herself? Joffrey always said she was a stupid girl. Or what if Robb didn't find her beautiful after all, and ignored her tonight? They weren't lined up for a formal greeting anymore and he could simply make himself scarce. What did Northern men like? Her mother always said people were strange and dismal in the North.

Myrcella could feel a nervous sweat beading on her brow and she wanted to tear her hear out with disgust. Princesses _didn't_ sweat—not if they could help it. Dabbing daintily at her face, she tried to calm down. She would have a moment outside the Great Hall before they went in as the procession was ordered. She usually went on Joffrey's arm at these events.

They arrived before the doors of the Great Hall and Myrcella quaked inside when she realized that she would not have time to compose herself after all. The terror lasted but a moment, however, and an inordinate thrill swept through her as she found herself being advised that she would be escorted in by Robb Stark.

He was already there, waiting for her, and Myrcella wanted to scream at someone for not warning her earlier. She would have taken more time, perhaps rehearsed her arrival before she faced him. She checked the impulse at once, knowing it was unfair to those responsible for her, and knowing as she stepped forward to curtsy to him that it didn't matter. It didn't matter what she did when something was destined to be, and her tender heart all but burst with gratitude at the certainty that everything would unfold as she imagined it.

He was so handsome, dressed in grey wool trimmed with white, and for once his serious, unsmiling countenance was broken by an admiring smile that seemed to be all for her. He bowed before her and offered her his arm, and in his low voice—already scratchier and deeper than any boy's she had heard—told her that she was the only girl he knew who could look lovely in yellow.

Myrcella was unable to help herself then. Her hand shot out before she could stop herself, and she laid it tenderly against Robb Stark's face. His beautiful, blue on blue eyes—like layers of blue glass heaped atop one another—widened in surprise. Without thinking, but meaning it with all her soul, Myrcella said gravely: "I am going to marry you someday, Robb Stark."

For a moment it seemed he looked at her as if he was really seeing her, and seeing all that she saw. Myrcella could already see everything—the day she would don the grey and white cloak of his house, the beautiful, red-haired babies she would bear him. Her proud parents teary-eyed at the wedding, the kindly but severe Lord and Lady Stark welcoming her to the North not as a guest but as family. Robb helping her choose the names of their children, reading them stories before she sang them their lullabies . . .

A laugh, cruel and mocking, cut into the shroud of magic that enveloped the two of them. It made Myrcella recall herself and she snatched her hand back, shame and shyness sweeping down on her so that she wanted to fall onto the floor. Robb straightened and said something in biting tones to Theon Greyjoy, the sharp-eyed boy whose mirth had broken her fantasies. Myrcella wished herself dead, wished she weren't such a silly, stupid girl, and she tried in vain to think of a reason for her to leave without disgracing herself further.

But then Robb turned back to her, and he reached decisively for her trembling hand. He held it over his arm, his warm, already calloused hand big and reassuring, all but enveloping her own.

"If you are going to be my lady, Princess," he said huskily, his eyes glowing though his face was expressionless, "you must learn not to pay fools like Theon any mind. Stark ladies are she-wolves, not meek does."

He grinned then, and Myrcella had felt an answering smile tugging at her own soft mouth, and then it was time to enter the Great Hall. As they swept in after their elders, Myrcella dreamily thought that this is how it would be—her proud lord would anchor her with his strength and teach her to be fierce, and she would bring warmth and beauty and sweetness into his life. She would light a spark in this cold, forbidding place, and he would always grin like that once they were married.

It was a dream that Myrcella would carry with her in the chill, bitter years to come.

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 **Author's Note #2:** Feedback is very much appreciated! I have a bunch of stories like this lying around (e.g. a Jon/Sansa one I started writing a few years back for another friend) that just need a little editing. Please let me know if you're interested in anything like that!

For the fans of my other work, I promise, I'm working on an update! It's just proving quite difficult because of real-life duties. (In case you're interested: I moved and got a new job which entails a grueling two-hour commute and work that I need to take home from the office, so when I get home I'm usually too tired to write.) But I promise, Chapter 10 of _Promises Kept_ is coming together!

Anyway, I hope you guys liked this one. It's nice and short with no sequel, which will probably be the format of my work going forward (after I wrap _Promises Kept_ , haha), but I hope it still entertained you. Until next time!


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